I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone call Weston “Brooks” before. Granted, it’s his first name. But even his own parents referred to him as Weston.

“Oh yeah, we go way back,” I confirm.

“We used to party,” Weston says, flinging his arm around me again. “Which is perfect, ’cause we’re hitting up a party now. And you’re coming.”

I hesitate. “Oh, I…”

“You’re coming,” he repeats. “I haven’t seen you in like three years. We need to catch up.” He pauses. “Just don’t tell anyone there that you go to Briar.”

Jake’s interest is piqued. “You’re at Briar?”

“Yup. I know, I know, I’m the enemy.” I glance at Weston. “Where’s this party?”

“A friend’s place west of Cambridge. It won’t be too rowdy. It’s a very chill crowd.”

I haven’t gone out since New Year’s Eve, so the idea of being social and having a drink or two sounds appealing.

“I’m here with my friend,” I say, remembering Brenna.

Weston shrugs. “Bring her.”

“I don’t know if she’ll want to come. She’s a rabid hockey fan, and by fan, I mean she roots for Briar and hates your guts.”

He snickers. “I don’t care if she roots for the devil himself. This isn’t Gangs of New York, babe. We’re allowed to socialize with people from other colleges. I’ll text you the address.”

When I notice Jake still watching me, I ask, “Are you sure you don’t mind if we come?”

“Not my place,” he replies with a shrug.

I don’t know if he means it’s not his place physically or not his place figuratively, as in he has no right to object. But I’ll take it.

“Okay. I’ll find my friend and meet you guys there.”

11

Summer

“This is blasphemy,” Brenna hisses as we approach the front door of a detached house with a white clapboard exterior. She twists around, longingly glancing at the Uber that’s speeding away from the curb.

I roll my eyes. “C’mon, let’s go inside.”

Her feet stay glued to the porch. “Don’t do this to me, Summer.”

“Do what?”

“Bring me into the den of Satan.”

“Oh my God. And people say I’m a drama queen.” I tug her toward the door. “We’re going inside. Deal with it.”

Despite what Weston said about it being a chill night, the place is overflowing when we walk in without ringing the bell. The music’s so loud, no one would’ve heard the doorbell, anyway.

And despite Brenna’s almost comical expression of horror, the party instantly puts a big smile on my face. I don’t know what it is about music and merriment and crowds that never fails to lift my spirits. At one point in my life I thought about becoming an event planner, but I realized fairly fast that I don’t actually like planning the parties—I like attending them. I get enjoyment out of putting together an outfit, picking a makeup palette, accessorizing. Making an entrance, and then wandering around to see what everyone else is wearing.

Maybe I need to be one of those interviewers who stands on the red carpet and admires the clothes. All I’d have to do is stick microphones in people’s faces and ask who they’re wearing. Damn. That actually sounds like it would be fun. But I think it’s a bit too late to switch my major to broadcasting. I’d have to start all over again. Besides, I’ve never had much interest in being on camera.

“I don’t like this. Look at these goons with their smug faces,” she growls, jabbing her finger in the air.

At that exact moment, a tall guy with scrawny arms poking out of a Celtics jersey backs directly into her pointed finger. “Hey! What the—” His protest dies when he spins around and sees Brenna. “Forget I said that,” he begs. “Please, please keep poking me. Poke me all night long.”

“No. Go away,” she orders.

He winks at her. “Come find me after you’ve had a couple drinks.”

My jaw drops. “Ew. Now you definitely need to go away.”

As Brenna and I brush past him, I search the crowd for Weston or Jake Connelly but don’t see either one of them. I know Weston’s here already, because he messaged me about ten minutes ago.

I take Brenna’s arm and drag her toward what I hope is the kitchen. “I need a drink.”

“I need ten.”

I pinch the fleshy part of her forearm. “Stop being so melodramatic. It’s just a party.”

“It’s a Harvard party. Celebrating a Harvard win.” She shakes her head. “You’re turning out to be the most disappointing best friend of all time.”

“We both know you don’t mean that. I’m terrific.”

In the kitchen, we’re greeted by a blast of raucous laughter. The cedar work island is covered with various alcoholic beverages and stacks of red plastic cups and surrounded by a crowd of people, mostly male. No Weston or Jake, but the noisy boys at the counter are all big enough that they’re most likely hockey players.

Every single one of them sends an appreciative look in our direction, while the only females—two pretty blondes—narrow their eyes. Within seconds, they’re dragging two of the guys away, under the pretense that they want to dance. I assume it’s their boyfriends, and these chicks couldn’t have been any more obvious that they viewed Brenna and me as threats.

I’ve got bad news for them. If they’re this afraid their men will stray? It’ll probably happen. That lack of trust doesn’t bode well for their relationships.

A dark-haired guy in a gray Harvard hoodie checks us out and grins broadly. “Ladies!” he calls. “Come celebrate with us!” He holds up a bottle of champagne.

“Bubbly? Wow! You Hah-vahd boys are so fancy,” Brenna drawls, but I don’t think any of them pick up on her sarcasm.

Gray Hoodie grabs two empty glasses from a nearby cupboard—actual champagne flutes—and waves them at us. “Say when.”

Brenna begrudgingly slinks toward him and accepts a glass. Over her shoulder, she defends her actions to me with, “I’m a sucker for champagne.”

I hide a smile. Uh-huh. I’m sure she went over there for the bubbles and not the cute guy. At least, I think he’s cute. He’s got a mop of brown hair and a really nice smile. Plus, what I assume is a hard, ripped, lickable body underneath his sweatshirt and cargo pants.

God, I love athletes.

“Which one are you?” she asks him.

“What do you mean?”

“What name is on your jersey?”

He grins. “Ah gotcha. Number 61. McCarthy.”

She narrows her eyes. “You scored the tying goal in the third.”

McCarthy beams. “That was me.”

“Sweet wrist shot.”

My eyebrows soar. Wow. Is she actually complimenting him? I guess I’m not the only one who likes his smile—

“What’s the matter, your slap shot doesn’t have enough power behind it?”